New Neighbors
by ModernDayBard
Summary: When Mrs. Hudson finds a new tenant for 221C, how will Sherlock react? (Not a romance, not a replacement for John; Rated T solely for chapter 6, all others are K .) Complete.
1. People Like You

**Hello, everybody, ModernDayBard here! Here's my stab at a Sherlock Fanfic. This is going to a series of one-shots featuring my OC, Jenny Meyers and everyone's favorite acerbic detective. Just to be clear, she is NOT a replacement for John as Sherlock's tag-a-long, nor is she a romantic interest.  
****And (not that you think I do) I do not own BBC Sherlock, or any of the characters that inhabit that wonderful world, I'm just borrowing them for a bit.**

Jenny put the last box down, glancing around the gloomy apartment at the towering stacks that served as a daunting reminder of all the unpacking she still had left to do...No, no, she wouldn't think about that now. Now, she would revel in the small victory of at least having gotten all of her boxes into the apartment, and take a moment to breathe in her new...home?

The young brunette honestly had to stop her thoughts there, glancing around as if to ask herself if she truly considered 221C Baker Street to be home already, before she'd even spent a single night there. Sinking down onto a box she _hoped_ would hold her weight, she gave into introspection, wondering how someone who hated change as much as she did could, at the same time, adjust so quickly.

"Hello?"

The unexpected, unfamiliar female voice so startled Jenny that she toppled backwards from her precarious perch, landing breathless but unhurt on the kitchen floor. At the clamor (the young woman had kicked a box of dishes as she tried to regain her balance) a slightly older, blonde woman hurried down the stairs and through the open door. Jenny pulled herself to a sitting positon just as the stranger reached her, a look of concern on the other woman's face.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to startle you—are you alright?"

"Fine, yes! I'm fine. It's okay—not your fault—I wasn't paying attention." Jenny flushed, aware that she was rambling, and painfully aware of her American accent, which marked her as an outsider here in the middle of London.

The woman offered her a hand, a surprisingly strong grip hauling the brunette to her feet. "Well, as long as you're not hurt." There was a pause as the older woman seemed to size up the younger, though her smile was still friendly. "So, Mrs. Hudson finally found a tenant for 221C?"

"Yep! A-Are you the upstairs neighbor?" When she'd spoken with the landlady, Jenny had been surprised by the list of noises she'd been warned to expect, and she'd been given no more by way of explanation than to say that the occupant of 221B was a little..._peculiar_.

"Heavens, no—just a friend of his. Well, he's my husband's best friend, but I think he counts me as a friend, too. So, you haven't met him yet. It'll be an interesting, believe me. I'll admit, I was surprised to see the door open and all the boxes." Jenny blinked as the blonde woman suddenly stuck out her hand. "I'm Mary, by the way. Mary Watson."

Jenny shook the proffered hand. "Jenny Meyers. Just moved here from Northern Virginia."

Mary glanced around the apartment, then back at the younger woman. "If you need a break from the gloom—" (and the look she gave Jenny made it clear she thought this was the case) "—I know Mrs. Hudson has cooked extra. We're having dinner at her place, just the four of us, and there's always room for one more."

Jenny shuffled awkwardly, wanting to make friends, but not wanting to insert herself into a long-established group. "I-I don't want to intrude on a private dinner—"

"Private? Tush! Just family," Mary insisted, "the Baker Street family—which you're a part of now, too. What better way to get to know the neighbors?"

* * *

And that was why, only a few minutes later, Jenny found herself seated at Mrs. Hudson's table, surrounded by—(a part of?)—quite the menagerie. Mrs. Hudson, of course, she'd already met, as well as Mary. Mary's husband, John, was nice enough, but Jenny noticed that he kept glancing between her and the fifth and final occupant of the table, as if anticipating an explosion.

Curious, she turned her attention to the tall, thin, dark-haired man. It seemed that this Sherlock was observing her in kind. His gaze bored into her, but rather than take offense at his silent stare, Jenny found herself waiting for his assessment with a feeling of amusement.

She wasn't disappointed.

"No rehearsal tonight?" It was the first thing he'd said all meal, and Mrs. Hudson had just gotten up to fetch desert.

Startled, John glanced at his friend, only to find the piercing blue eyes were locked on Jenny's hazel ones. "Sherlock?" he queried.

Jenny tilted her head to one side, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Rehearsal? What for?"

"Oh, please," her new neighbor replied in a bored tone, "you're not fooling anyone—it's obvious."

"Sherlock..." John muttered in a warning tone.

The detective pushed on, undeterred. "It's clear from the thickness of your accent that you have not been here very long—not had your adjustment period yet. You're not here for vacation, you've picked at least a semi-permanent residence. There are a variety of reasons why someone would make so drastic a change.

"Given your age, energy and paradoxical blend of confidence and timidity, you are finally emerging into the world beyond school, so: just graduated. Estimating your age to be in the mid-twenties, and that you don't really seem fully accustomed to being on your own, given your few nervous tics during the meal, you likely did undergraduate and graduate in one straight shot, so you probably aren't in a field you can get a job in without a higher degree.

"This was a big move away from you family, but there's absolutely no residual bitterness—highly indicating you were running _to_ something, not away _from_. Could be a romantic motivation, but no one's been over to help you move, so that's not likely.

"Next logical choice: a job. You _do_ have a job, as you felt financially confident enough to rent an apartment on your own. However your confidence _is_ limited and you chose a much cheaper apartment—job isn't guaranteed, or the pay is low, or both. You _did_ come all this way, so the job is likely in your field of study.

"Finally, some of the hair on your shirt is long, blonde, and fake—so, a wig. What job is uncertain, low-paying, can require wigs, and necessitates higher degrees to gain employment? Theater. What shows are opening soon and have already begun the rehearsal period—that also have a blonde character in your general age range and body type? The new local production of _Matilda the Musical_—which, if you _are_ cast in, I strongly encourage you to pay more attention to your accent."

As the extend monologue at last came to its conclusion, the three who knew the detective stared at him, internally relieved that he'd been—for him at least—on the polite side. Then, to their surprise, Jenny laughed.

"That was good! But are you sure you weren't clued in when I was practicing my songs while bringing in the boxes today?"

"Yes, well, there were a few _other_ shows that fit the criteria, but the music was the final give away. That's also how I knew your accent needs work."

"Noted," was the brunette's glib reply. "And to answer your first question, tonight's rehearsal was cancelled. Our Miss Trunchbull had a bad fall last night, so the director wanted to give him a chance to recover. Apparently, last season, the lead actor popped his Achilles' tendon, so everyone in the company's a little on edge."

"Don't you mean 'her'?"

Jenny regarded John blankly, but before she could ask what he meant, Sherlock cut in. "You referenced a _Miss_ Trunchbull, then said that the director wanted to give _him_ a chance to recover."

"Oh, well, you seemed familiar enough with the show—" Jenny began by way of explanation, but Sherlock waved it aside.

"Cursory knowledge—I don't devote much mental effort to trivial entertainment theater."

For the first time that meal, Jenny found herself get angry, but she did her level best to keep her calm façade intact. Choosing to ignore Sherlock and his insensitive comment, she turned to John. "The role of Miss Trunchbull is traditionally filled by a male actor."

Sherlock snorted and muttered something under his breath, and it took conscious effort on the actress's part not to strike out at him—physically or verbally.

* * *

She held her tongue on the matter until after the Watson's had left (saying something bout relieving the babysitter) and Mrs. Hudson had went into the kitchen to clean up. Finally, Jenny spoke her mind.

"'Trivial entertainment theater'? You're so full of it, aren't you? A play doesn't have to be over a hundred years old before it's worthwhile."

Sherlock smirked at the much-shorter woman before replying. "But theater isn't exactly one of those professions the world would end without."

To her credit, Jenny didn't back down, glaring right back at him as he attacked her chosen vocation. "Not all occupations are about keeping people alive," she retorted, "some give people something worth living for. _That's_ what plays and musicals do: capture imaginations, stir emotions, put truths into stories, and create a communal experience."

"Maybe for lesser minds, but to anyone of a superior intellect, it becomes childish playacting, escapism, and simply a waste of time." Sherlock was surprised by his own rudeness, but something about this American's attitude had gotten under his skin.

Jenny crossed her arms, all but spitting out: "You know, in my field, we have a term for people like you."

"What?"

"Divas!"

**So, yeah. They sure got off on the wrong foot. And yes, I **_**know**_** Sherlock is a little ooc, seeing as how he softened a bit by the end of season 3. My justification is the same as I give in the story—Jenny rubs him the wrong way at first, and defensive Sherlock is arrogant Sherlock. Also, these stories will be more along the lines of 'Bored' instead of my other fics (laid back instead of plot-driven) with one possible exception.  
Anyway, if you see something you like, or something you think I can fix/improve for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!**


	2. Neighborly Efforts

**Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here with the next installment. As entertaining as a neighborly war would be to read, I don't feel I'm up to caliber of writing it believably, so this is a truce of sorts. Hopefully still entertaining, though!  
****Of course: I don't own **_**Sherlock**_**, its world, or its characters, (hence my great fear of too many ooc moments).**

Jenny Meyers hadn't spoken to Sherlock Holmes since the dinner party on her first day in Bakers' Street. She wasn't angry at him, and neither was she purposefully avoiding him. It was just that their schedules simply didn't have them entering or leaving at the same time, and it was clear (though unsurprising) that they didn't frequent the same establishments.

In fact, for a few weeks, the only proof the young actress had that her neighbor was, in fact, alive, was his violin playing. (And she was eternally grateful that the detective was a skilled player.) As Jenny felt bad for snapping at Sherlock (as accurate as she deemed her assessment), she did her best to make sure that, whenever she practiced her numbers at home, that their respective rehearsals never clashed. It could have been her imagination, but it seemed that he did the same, and, after a few weeks, they wordlessly established a pattern where he had the mornings and she the afternoons before she had to leave for evening rehearsals.

One morning, the familiar sound of the stringed instrument didn't come. Jenny was almost worried, when she heard her neighbor come in around noon.

_*Must've been on a case, or something.*_

That afternoon, she was focused on her favorite song from the musical, which was also the hardest: "My House". At this point in the story, her character was simultaneously stronger and yet more vulnerable than she'd yet been in the whole musical, and the song was a beautiful, if unusual, blend of hope and melancholy.

_*That's Dahl for you.* _

Conscious of neighbors, and not wanting to cause a fuss or disturbance, Jenny did her best to practice quietly. She tried, but the song itself fought her on that part: starting quietly, it nevertheless built to a strong climax. That meant that, however quietly she began, if she was not careful, she still got too loud for her apartment. Still, she strove her best to be considerate.

Her second time through, she noticed something as she neared the climax. In the actual show, at that point the actor playing the escapologist would have begun singing his song once more, overlapping her tune and heightening the emotional power of both numbers. In practice, she noticed the strains of Sherlock's violin playing the male vocal part. Jenny kept singing, her mouth quirking into a small smile.

* * *

That night, she was leaving early to meet a friend and cast mate before rehearsal, and actually ran into Sherlock on the stairs. "'Trivial entertainment theater', eh?"

The detective paused silently, and Jenny elaborated: "Today—the song. You knew it. I thought you didn't 'devote much mental effort to trivial entertainment theater'."

"Well, I had to practice, and it would have been rude to clash with you or attempt to play over you when your efforts are directly related to your job. I'd worked out the instrumentation based on the melody. That is the one you practice most often, after all. I simply played my nearest guess."

Jenny nodded slowly, unable to refute his assessment of her practice schedule. She turned away, saying casually over her shoulder as she headed for the door: "Well, thank you: that was nice of you. A complete and utter lie, but nice."

Upon reaching the door, the actress turned back to smirk at her silent neighbor. "I've little doubt that you _could_ figure out the instrumental part on your own. But the escapologist's song? And to know that it came in to this song, much less exactly where? You would have had to look it up, even if you only heard it once."

With that parting shot, she was out the door before the consulting detective could protest...or come up with a better lie.

**So, yeah. Someone who can actually tell when Sherlock's lying—at least, when it comes to theater. (Word of advice—don't try to lie to someone about a field their passionate about if you have only a passing interest. Odds are, they'll know.) And at last, they begin to warm up to each other...if only slightly. By the way, the song I talked about, 'My House' is, in fact, a real song (and one of my favorite songs from **_**Matilda**_**), and I highly recommend looking it up.  
Anyways, if there's anything you liked, or something you saw that you thought I could fix/improve on for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!**


	3. Dumbfounded Detective

**Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! This chapter was harder than the other two to write—who knew telling a story like this from Sherlock's perspective would be so hard? (Probably anyone who's tried.)  
****As always, I don't own BBC Sherlock or its associated characters, just Jenny and this story idea.**

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to make of Jenny, what to think about her—and it was not an uncertainty that the consulting detective was used to. On the one hand, he could read the young actress as well as—sometimes better than—he could anyone else. The little clues that would unfold a life's stories were all there, and she didn't much try to hide how she felt, wearing her heart on her sleeve for all her talk of acting. Nothing about the American should have been a mystery to his exceptional mind. And yet...

...And yet, the very first conversation he'd had with her had brought out a side of him that he'd long thought had been at least somewhat softened by the influence of John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade and Molly. Even more perplexing was that, after they had parted, he'd felt _guilty_ about what he'd said—though he still stood behind his assessment of her line of work. (Admittedly, he attributed his feelings of guilt more to John's efforts in his role of Sherlock's social conscience than to a chance encounter with his downstairs neighbor.)

His confusion was what gave rise to his increased violin playing (it always helped him to think more clearly) but that itself led to another conundrum. Jenny often rehearsed her parts at home—hardly a surprise—and he actually found himself listening as her voice carried, making sure their musical efforts never clashed. Without ever speaking they'd made a daily habit of it—him practicing in the mornings when she was likely to be out working, running errands, or exploring, and Jenny rehearsing in the afternoon when he would usually be out on a case. That wasn't to say that he _never_ heard her (thus he was grateful that his neighbor could at least carry a tune and stay on key); in fact, one song in particular got caught in his head, driving him to actually look it up.

He never could say afterwards _what_ possessed him to learn the male vocal part on the violin, much less play it the next time she sang her part—there was no logic behind it, and not even a reasonable cause for sentiment, as far as he could tell. To further compound the consulting detective's confusion, she'd noticed—worse, the newcomer had _called him out_ on it. Jenny had seen through his lie, and yet her tone had never approached anger, even the tinge of smugness had still been a kind one, as if she'd been happy that he knew the song, more than that she'd won her point.

Musing over these thoughts and more, Sherlock barely noticed the rain as it steadily increased in intensity. He'd just finished a case and, distraction over, he was returning to Baker's street when Sherlock noticed the person in question approaching the flat from the opposite direction, laden with multiple grocery bags. Jenny seemed to be managing the weight just fine, but he could tell one bag was about to break, and that she'd never get a hand free to be able to fish her key out.

Reaching forward, he caught the troublesome bag just as one corner split, managing to tilt it in such a way as to keep it from spilling.

"Thanks," Jenny said with a smile. "That could've been bad."

Wordlessly, Sherlock nodded, opening the door and following her into 221C with her groceries still in hand.

"Just put it on the counter there," Jenny called as she carried the five remaining bags into the kitchen. "And thanks again for the quick save back there."

"No problem," the consulting detective mumbled, taking in the changes the small brunette had made to the cramped, dingy apartment. She'd obviously cleaned a _lot_, bringing the walls closer to their original white. What few furnishings Jenny had were scattered about the room in clumps, allowing for open spaces, splashes of color, and a generally lived-in look. The touch that helped the most was the mirrors the young actress had placed behind what few lamps she had, all tilted at an angle to reflect the light out and up at the ceiling, brightening the atmosphere considerably.

Jenny must've noticed his observations as he placed the bag down. "Sorry about the mess," she apologized, "I'm not the neatest person, especially with tech week looming."

Sherlock blinked and looked around again. "Mess?" By 221B standards, the place was spotless. Now that he looked closer, he could see the book on the table, the jacket on the back of the chair, and the laptop on the futon, but still—Mrs. Hudson would have a heart attack if his place ever looked this neat. Curious, he peeked at the kitchen to see if her embarrassment stemmed from a pile of dirty dishes but no, just the groceries, a few utensils, and a crockpot, which was the source of a tantalizing, savory odor.

"Were your parents more than ordinarily given to cleanliness when you were growing up?"

Jenny paused for a moment in the act of unloading groceries to regard him with a confused expression. "No," she replied at last. "Not really. Well, not unless we had guests coming over. Then Mom's standards got a little stricter."

"That would explain your own standards, then."

Jenny laughed. "I guess it would." She must've noticed his gaze flick over to the crockpot again, as she changed topics while stowing away the final few items. "Speaking of mom, that's her pot-roast recipe. I've never made it before, so I was nervous about how it'd turn out, but it smells like I remember, so here's hoping."

"It does smell good," Sherlock admitted, well aware it was another take-out dinner night for him. Who knew someone as busy as the young actress would have time to cook?

"And it's finished!" Jenny lifted the lid, inspecting the food. "Want to take a bowl with you?"

He _did_, but was unwilling to admit it. "Uh, well..."

"Take it," Jenny insisted. "My mom's from the South—she drilled certain forms of hospitality into my head for most of my life."

With that, she grabbed a bowl, pulled part of the roast off and placed it in the bowl, then ladled some of the gravy over it and handed to whole thing over to the detective. Sherlock took it, more confused than ever but determined not to show it. "Thank you," he muttered, before retreating back to 221B.

And, yes, the pot roast was delicious.

**So, yeah. Sorry if the recap section was a bit tedious. I kept trying to write this story without it, but in life and in stories, what someone has previously experienced will influence how they react to certain events (hence the need for backstories), so I found I just couldn't get away from going over the previous two stories (briefly) from Sherlock's perspective.  
****Anyway, if you saw something you liked or something you think I can fix/improve on for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!**


	4. Seeing Beneath

**Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! Not really anything to say, I just hope you all enjoy this week's installment.  
****As always, I don't own **_**Sherlock**_** or its associated characters/world. I just borrowed them to play with for a while.**

"...yeah, no: I get it. Rest up, Jess. We want you feeling better by opening night. Yeah, no—we can totally do lunch another time. ...Jess, it's fine, really. Honestly, I had feeling you might need to cancel when I heard how hoarse you sounded at rehearsal last night. You probably got that 24-hour sore throat going around. I'll just take you up on your offer after we get past the first weekend—deal? ...Alright. See you tonight, then. ..Alright. Bye."

Jenny ended the call and let her cellphone drop onto the futon beside her. Like she'd told the other actress, she completely understood and was fine with their plans getting cancelled...partly. Jess had been one of the few members of the company with at least one season under their belt that had accepted the American newcomer from the start. (The others had come around eventually, but still, Jess was one of the few that made an effort to help the younger woman get settled in to the new country, let alone the new gig.)

Truth be told, at times it felt like Jess was the one person Jenny could count as a good friend in this new city. Of course, there were others in the company, or even John and Mary, (whom she'd talked with on several other occasions after their first encounter) that were also friends...sort of; just not the type she felt she could call on to stave off the loneliness, boredom, and homesickness that had begun to hit her on top of the stress of tech week. Introvert Jenny may have been, but there were times she wanted some escape from the company of her own mind, and though this was one of those times, it didn't seem that she'd be getting it anytime soon.

Maybe she should go out and walk around—let the crowds of the city be her distraction and her company at once. With the news she'd gotten from home, she needed the diversion, but before she could motivate herself to actually stand up and go out, there was a sharp knock on the door.

"Coming!" she called instinctively, already heading for the door. When she opened it and saw that it was her upstairs neighbor Jenny had a moment of confusion until she saw the bowl in his hands—oh yes, the one she'd loaned him when she'd let him try to pot roast the other day. "Hi, Sherlock."

"I came to return this," he began bluntly, thrusting the dish into her hands, "and to...to ask for a favor."

Still confused but welcoming the chance for some company—however stiff and awkward the consulting detective still seemed around her, Jenny stood aside, allowing him to come in. "How can I help?" She took the bowl into the kitchen, then noticed her guest was still standing in the middle of the main room. "You can sit down, you know; I don't mind."

Sherlock nodded once and sat in the single chair at the small table and began to explain. "I need some advice in an area I'm still working on. Ordinarily, I'd ask someone else, but Lestrade is still upset about the last time, and Mrs. Hudson will be out for most of the day."

"And John or Mary?" Jenny asked, amazed she'd even been considered among the people the detective would go to for interpersonal advice. (She assumed that's what it was, as his actions and the stories she'd heard told her he wouldn't admit ignorance in almost any other field.)

"Well, it would be counterproductive to seek their aid, as anniversary gifts are generally supposed to be surprises—yes?"

She'd got it in one—interpersonal advice. "Alright then, that makes sense. What exactly do you need help with?"

"Advice about what to get—what's appropriate, what's acceptable. The internet was particularly unhelpful on that point," Sherlock rattled off, in a tone that said he thought she should've already somehow known this.

Jenny tried not to take offense at the condescension and flippancy in his voice, keeping her own voice level as she answered. "Hardly surprising—it's commonly accepted that anniversary gifts are usually exchanged simply by the couple, with only the closest of friends also acknowledging the occasion, so advice for the friends really isn't common. What makes it even more difficult is that the gifts are usually personal, driven more by the interests and personalities of the couple than any objective standard."

Sherlock nodded quickly, waving his hands dismissively. "Yes, yes—I've gathered as much. I don't need help understanding the _why_, simply _what_ would be best."

"Yes, of course," Jenny replied, biting off the words as Sherlock's attitude kept grating on her nerves. "This is not their first anniversary—correct? It's their second?" At his nod, she continued asking questions, trying to establish a base from which to give her assessment. By this point, she was now sitting on the futon opposite the detective. "Well, what did you do last year?"

Sherlock remained completely still, completely relaxed as he gave the oddest of answers. "I didn't get them a present, per se, and it _was_ a bit early, but I killed the man who was blackmailing them."

Jenny didn't speak for a moment, but had to admit that it was a 'gift' that summed up the relationship between the Watson's and Sherlock Holmes. "I can see," she managed at last, "why you would be looking for a new idea, then. Well, the best advice I can give you is look at what John and Mary enjoy or enjoy doing together—something tied to both of them, mind you—and choose a gift that reflects that. For example, my best friend and her husband are both musicians—she's a music therapist and he's a worship leader—so I found a Willow Tree statue with a man and woman sitting together at a piano as an anniversary gift for them last year."

"Willow Tree?"

"It's a statue brand that my mom introduced me to," Jenny explained, "and Aleia loves it as well. Since I knew it was one they didn't have, it ended up being the perfect gift." As she spoke, Jenny had grabbed her laptop and brought up a picture of the statue she'd described, as well as examples of other pieces. "That's Willow Tree. Now, I don't know if that's the sort of thing John and Mary would like—you know them better than I do. The simple key is to focus on what's important to them."

Sherlock scowled. "That doesn't really give me an answer."

Jenny couldn't hold it in any longer. "Human interaction doesn't follow a formula, Sherlock! Sometimes, there's more than one right answer. You don't buy someone a present simply because it's what's expected; you do it because you want to make them happy, to show them that you care! It's not a concept you break down scientifically with your mind." As soon as she stopped speaking, she could've kicked herself for losing her temper. Honestly, the detective hadn't _meant_ to be insulting or upsetting, he simply needed the help to understand. Her short temper and emotional reaction had more to do with the stresses and disappointments of the last few days, then with the ill-timed entrance of the detective.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as she reached the end of her rant, then released her angry tension and started to curl in on herself in embarrassment. Before she could apologize, he cut her off. "Of course, you're right. Was I interrupting something when I arrived?"

Jenny hesitated to answer, but after shouting when (mostly) unprovoked, she felt she owed her neighbor an explanation. "Not really—it's just been a rough few days. Tech week's always exhausting, and I was supposed to get a break from it today, but my friend had to cancel. And yesterday..." At that point, however, she cut herself off. Explaining was one thing, but she couldn't just dump all of her pent-up frustrations and worries on the detective after a simple inquiry. "Never mind that. I'm sorry for being rude, and not being able to be more helpful."

"It's a start at least," Sherlock replied, waving it off, his mind occupied now with trying to figure out how serious whatever it was affecting Jenny actually was. Then he glanced down and saw something on the table—a packet that had apparently been tossed aside in frustration recently. "Tickets to your own show?" He quickly ran through what theater traditions he knew about. "You were holding them for someone—someone who is coming to opening night?"

Jenny followed his gaze, arms crossing slightly. "Y-yeah. Well, not anymore." Taking a deep breath, the young actress explained: "My parents were supposed to come for opening night, but yesterday they called to say that they have to reschedule, and try to come later in the run. Mom's got Parkinson's, see. It's not so bad right now, but it's starting to get worse. She had a health scare the other night, and she's still in the hospital. She's fine, now, but won't be able to fly for a few weeks."

Sherlock was suddenly as uncomfortable as the American. He wasn't sure how to respond or what to say—what was expected in light of the revelation. Jenny saw that and tried to wave it off. "Sorry, didn't mean to get into heavier details. Honestly, she's fine; I-I just...Sometimes I regret moving so far away. This is just one of those times, but hey—that kind of regret but pushing on works great for my character." She knew it was putting a bold face on it, but she wanted to lighten the mood.

Sherlock was now bound for the door, but hesitated before leaving. "Uh, yes, well...If—If you need something...you...could, uh..."

Jenny shook her head. "Look, you don't have to offer because that's what people do when they find out something like that. Our family's known for years—"

Now it was the detective's turn to interrupt. "That's not why I offered," he replied over his shoulder as he left.

As the door closed behind her enigmatic neighbor, Jenny arrived at the startling realization that he'd some to her for advice because he really did count her on the same level as Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson.

_*When did __that__ happen?*_

**So, yeah. A lot of side elements of this story were drawn from personal experience this time, (my best friend being a musician, my mom loving Willow Tree statues and having Parkinson's); the only exception being that the particular statue I described does not seem to exist. (Sadly.)  
****Anyway, if you saw something you liked or something you think I should fix/improve on for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!**


	5. The Thespian's World

**Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! This week's installment in 'New Neighbors' was suggested by EnduranceInHope, who read the first chapter and insisted that the following events needed to unfold.  
****As always, I don't own BBC Sherlock or its associated characters, or the script/characters of Matilda. Oh, and spoiler warning for **_**Matilda the Musical**_**, for those who care about such things.**

Sherlock Holmes was not a man easily made uncomfortable. In the course of one various case or another, he'd pretended to be many people and did many things that the average person would at least hesitate before attempting. What appeared to some (especially John Watson) to be irrational, spur-of-the-moment decisions were carefully crafted choices, and the consulting detective was always aware of exactly what he had done to land himself in a particular situation.

Yet, for all that, he still wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten roped into _this—_attending the opening night of the London revival of _Matilda: _Jenny's show. He knew it had _started_ with that day in her apartment, when he found out that her parents would be unable to attend. After that, he may have mentioned what he'd learned about Mrs. Meyer's illness and hospitalization to the Watsons (omitting, of course, the circumstances of his visit to Jenny's apartment). At that point, Mary had begun encouraging him to go, but Sherlock was pretty sure he'd been successfully resisting her efforts. Then, one day, Mary had returned from an ostensibly impromptu visit to 221C with both free tickets, one of which she thrust into the detective's hand with the simple phrase, "You _will_ go."

Of course, there was no arguing with Mrs. Watson when she used that tone, so Sherlock's first instinct was to force the other ticket onto Mycroft—share the misery, as it were. However, Mary kept a hold of that one, expressing her own desire to attend, so Sherlock was stuck in the theater, unable to sneak away under Mary's watchful eye. She'd asked him to keep an open mind regarding the play for Jenny's sake, but the consulting detective knew the only way he would survive the next two hours was to keep a critical commentary running the back of his mind.

He'd just have to remember not to voice his thoughts to either Mary or Jenny.

* * *

The lights dimmed, the orchestra began to play, and Sherlock sat back, arms folding. _*Alright, Miss Meyers. Let's see what this story does to, how did you put it? 'Capture imaginations, stir emotions, put truths into stories, and create a communal experience.'* _

The first song began, and Sherlock winced as the caricatures of both spoiled children and doting parents alike sang all too enthusiastically about how every child was a miracle in their parent's eyes, before some kind of clown or party entertainer entered and ranted about how ridiculous such a point of view was. _*We don't need you to tell us that—you've just shown us that. Why must shows be so redundant?*_ The simultaneously arrogant and doting song continued, until it was interrupted with an absolutely torturous scene with a woman so mind-numbingly, annoyingly _stupid_, even the average person—even _Anderson_, for crying out loud—would find her thick-headedness hard to accept, much less endure.

Sherlock was so caught up in his loathing of this woman—one Mrs. Wormwood—that he almost missed when the doctor began to sing, turning the initial theme on its head, stating that children _were_ miracles, not because each one was more exceptionally gifted than all the others, but by virtue of being alive. _*Heavy-handed as ever, but not a bad twist, I suppose.*_ All this led up to the birth of the main character, the introduction of her father (just as annoying, stupid, and over-exaggerated as her mother), and the setup for just how miserable poor Matilda's life actually was. _*So, we get a perfect, bright little child that has to endure countless hardships before the inevitable happy ending? I thought such sentimental comedies went out of style in the 1700's. This is going to be painful, no question.*_

Later, after being insulted by her whole family and sent to bed (Sherlock really wasn't looking forward to a show where you were supposed to feel bad for the heroine as she virtuously endured all manner of tribulations), Matilda got her first song all to herself. In this number, she snuck out of bed, stage-whispering her song about taking matters into her own hands, where upon she poured her mother's hair dye into her father's hair tonic. It wasn't clear what this trick was supposed to accomplish (besides turning her father's hair green in the next scene), but the detective took it as an encouraging sign that this little girl would be taking an active role in her own story, rather than being a passive victim or observer. _*If I have to watch an inane story, at least it's a more interesting one.*_

Before her father could identify her as the perpetrator (though Sherlock privately thought that simple act of deduction far exceeded the capabilities of Mr. Wormwood), the ostensibly 'genius' child of Matilda sought the shelter of the local library, and begun narrating a story she was making up to the enraptured librarian. Sherlock did his best not to scoff aloud, as he was sure such action would draw Mary's intention—and ire. _*Still, if they want to set her up as this overwhelmingly intelligent child, they need to show it in more than a few large words—the story itself should reflect her supposed brilliance, not sound like something the average five-year-old would compose. If she's reading __War and Peace__, for crying out loud, her story should reflect some of that maturaity.*_

In the next scene, Matilda joined her classmates in approaching school for the first time, and a chorus of older students began a high-paced song with a dark, ominous sound, warning the new kids about how awful school was. _*Are you quite sure that's the message you want to send to your younger audiences?*_ What was worse, it just went on—meandering a bit while staying close to the theme. It didn't seem to have a point.

All at once though, the younger children interrupted with all the nice things their parents had told them about school—including learning the alphabet. At that point, the older children repeated their entire song, wheeling out blocks at just the right time to reveal that the entire alphabet had been 'hidden in plain sight' in the lyrics they sang. Sherlock was surprised at the twist—then surprised he hadn't seen it coming. Adding that to the twist in the opening song, and this childish musical had now caught him off-guard _twice_, leaving him with a tough choice to make: arguably, if he paid closer attention, his prodigious mind could detect these surprises well in advance, but paying that much attention to the show felt like validating it—in other words, like surrendering to Jenny's point in their first argument about whether a show like this held any value. Either way, his pride would suffer a _serious_ blow.

Once the school day began, Jenny's character, Miss Honey (the one nice teacher) finally put in an appearance. Of course with the blonde wig and costume that Jenny would never wear in real life it was easier to see the character than the actress—Sherlock had to give them that much at least. Astounded by Matilda's 'brilliance' (which he still felt wasn't being played very well), Miss Honey headed for the principal's office, determined to request the little girl be moved up several grades. However, outside the office she hesitated and began to sing about how scared she was to go in. Sherlock frowned. Was this show _trying_ to make children scared of school? This was getting ridiculous! Not to mention, this was the one song he had previously noted where Jenny didn't sound like herself. It was like she was affecting her voice, making it more choppy, using an almost sing-song tone and achieving a slightly nasally quality that didn't sound _bad_ per se, but just wasn't her. Towards the end of the song, she relaxed for just a moment into a more natural tone, but returned to the affected voice for a few bars before _finally_ knocking on the door.

Upon entering the office, the teacher was then faced with the headmistress—the Miss Trunchbull who was played by a man—who proceeded to sing an entire song essentially about how she was a nasty, narrow-minded person. _*This musical really enjoys being heavy-handed, doesn't it?* _

Sherlock wasn't impressed, nor did he understand why the character needed to be played by a male actor. _*If it's simply for the sake of being physically imposing, couldn't a larger female actor achieve the same effect? If it's supposed to be funny, I don't get the joke.*_

He had to admit, the following scene with Matilda learning about the infamous 'Chokey' and subsequently bluffing to keep a classmate out of trouble was, if not entertaining, at least a closer representation of what someone with Matilda's supposed intelligence would do, at least, in his estimation. Although, he wasn't pleased that the main way the playwright chose to show how 'smart' Matilda was was to make all adults around her but two into complete imbeciles—it was just tiresome, and they hadn't even reached intermission yet.

In the next scene, Jenny (as Miss Honey) went to talk to Matilda's parents about letting their daughter skip several grades, and as soon as Mrs. Wormwood began to sing, Sherlock braced himself for the coming assault on the ears and intellect. As annoying as it was (and was intended to be), he had to admit that Mrs. Wormwood's main claim: 'what you know matters less than the volume at which what you don't know is expressed,' pretty much summed up the average attitude, at least, as it came across to him.

He supposed it was actually to the number's credit that he hated it so much—you weren't _supposed_ to like Mrs. Wormwood, you were _supposed_ to hate her for insulting Jenny—er, Miss Honey—and you were _supposed_ to be completely opposed to the-the—the _worldview_ (for lack of a better term) that she represented.

It still didn't mean he had to enjoy the song.

If the scene had an upside, it was the song Jenny's character sang immediately after being 'blasted out of the house' by the sheer force of Mrs. Wormwood's stupidity—or something like that. While the song began with the same affected voice and self-remonstrating theme as her first, as soon as her thoughts and words turned to Matilda, Jenny relaxed into her natural voice, which even the detective had to admit was a pretty one, and the simple, quiet number was a welcome break from the assault of the one immediately prior.

At the next installment of Matilda's story to the librarian, Sherlock had to role his eyes. Not only did the story still sound like something a child would write (one joke about an airplane noting a collective gasp as an atmospheric phenomenon did not make up for the ludicrous scenario or the childish repetition of the unreasonably long name of the trick), but now it was quite clear where the story was coming from: a mean woman who loved to scare children and used to be an Olympic hammer–thrower? Gee, I have no idea _why_ that seems to resemble a certain character we've already seen...

_*Why can't authors assume a reasonable intelligence from the audience?*_

Sherlock admittedly didn't pay much attention to the final number before intermission—which was yet another scene demonstrating how cruel the headmistress was and how much all the students (as well Miss Honey) wanted to see someone get the best of her. He was, instead, trying to figure out the trick used to make the cake disappear so rapidly, as the boy ostensibly eating it could only account for maybe a quarter of its mass vanishing in the time allotted by the song. He had several theories, but without a closer look at the stage setup than was afforded by their first-row balcony seats (her parent's preferred seating location, Jenny had explained apologetically), it was hard to tell which was correct.

* * *

As intermission finally began, the detective welcomed the break, praying Mary wouldn't ask him what he thought so far. He wasn't enjoying himself—why was it necessary to have a whole act to set up just how miserable Matilda's life was without showing her take any major steps to change anything? It was clear by the end of the first number what the problem was, the story simply could've moved on from there.

_*But: no, we have a whole second act to get through! ...How am I going to survive?*_

* * *

The second half began with an utterly pointless number sung by the ever-insufferable Mr. Wormwood. The song seemed to serve no narrative purpose: it put forward no new plot information, and all of its 'character insight' was what was painfully obvious already. As far as Sherlock could tell, the whole reason it existed was to give Mr. Wormwood more stage time in order to entice some poor fool to audition for the part. To further compound the detective's sour mood, the audience _joined in_ on the last chorus—for no perceivable reason!

"Is it just me, or am I amazing?"

_*It's just you.*_

The next number, however, wasn't so bad. While the Sherlock from a few years ago would've scoffed at all the visions the children had for what life as a grown-up was like, the Sherlock who'd been under the influence of John Watson for some time actually felt bad for the characters—filled with hope regarding a world they couldn't yet understand the cruelties of.

Then Jenny came out, and her character sang the exactly same lines as the children, specifically the ones about being able to answer all the hard questions, and fight all the monsters under the bed someday when _she_ grew up. Given how her character had already been shown to be living in fear of just about everything, it was a sad reminder that sometimes even adults didn't understand the adult world, either.

At the third installment of Matilda's story to the librarian, Sherlock actually started to wonder about the little girl's mental health—paralleling real life was one thing, but this girl seemed to have decided that _none_ of the characters in her story should be happy, ever. Then again, that did reflect the world around her, as well. Perhaps it was the writers he should wonder about...

The next installment in the story—the final installment—came immediately afterward, but this time, Matilda was telling herself the story after being locked in her room by her parents. Sherlock frowned at the story's ending. Telling a depressing story that mirrored her own reality to an adult was one thing—a cry for help—but when a child made up a story like that for themselves, they put in a happy ending because there needed to be one—they needed to believe that's what life was like. As childish as the story was—as full as it was of impossibilities, gaping loopholes, and childish leaps—it was too depressing to be the product of a child's imagination. Was this girl so determined to be unhappy that her own imaginary savior would fail her when she needed him most?

The scene then shifted back to the school, and yet another scene of cruelty on the part of Miss Trunchbull. Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience with the story's progression—or lack thereof. The heroes still refused to take any kind of useful action to improve their situation, and instead the audience was forced to endure scene after scene of cruel and idiotic antagonists. The headmistress's song, for example, added nothing to the story but a (confusing) peak into her psyche, although by this point the detective loathed her too much to care.

But this scene was different from those before—this time, Matilda had had enough. Just before her 'strange and unusual' powers manifested, all action onstage froze as the young child sang about the storm that was raging in her mind at that moment, fueled by all that was going on around her, and the moment of peace she felt when she retreated far enough. Sherlock had to nod at that. _*Yes—__that's__ how it feels. That's what being a genius is: maddening and infuriating because your mind won't shut up and the world won't keep up, and you just want peace from one or the other, or both.*_

After the incident in the schoolyard, Matilda went home with Miss Honey, and found out just what a terrible situation her teacher currently had to endure. Apparently braver when dealing with her student, Miss Honey attempted to convince Matilda that it wasn't so bad, by singing the song 'My House'. Sherlock shifted as Jenny began singing, the memory of accompanying her on the violin rising up unbidden, as this was _that_ song.

This was also the song that revealed the story Matilda was making up wasn't imaginary at all—but the true backstory of her teacher and headmistress. The revelation was enough to bring the detective away from the embarrassing memory, but not to ease his discomfort—there were blatant weaknesses to the story one could overlook if it was a child's fictitious ramblings, but too many glaring oversights for it to be cannon, even in the lop-sided, off-kilter world of the show at large.

From there, the resolution followed swiftly, with Matilda leading her fellow students in an uprising, using her telekinetic powers to frighten the headmistress into returning Miss Honey's life to normal before fleeing, then being moved up several grades and even being allowed to live with Miss Honey after her abusive family unexpectedly fled to Spain.

For all his internal grumbling about the main character's lack of action up until that point, Sherlock was dissatisfied with the ending. It wasn't just that it was rushed—it felt like it was tacked on so as not to frighten young children with the realities of life. Even if the story had stopped short of Matilda moving in with Miss Honey—_that_ would've felt more complete than the ending that resolved everything, in his mind. Well, maybe 'complete' was the wrong word: perhaps 'satisfying' or 'justified' would better convey his feeling towards the ending in his mind.

But whatever the right word was, he had survived the show, and only had to sit through the curtain call before he could make his exit. It wasn't bad, as curtain calls go. The applause was a bit excessive in the detective's mind, requiring several full-cast bows at the end, but then again, it _was_ the opening night, so some amount of over-enthusiasm was only to be expected.

_*Just be glad it's not the closing show—it'd go on for another full fifteen minutes.*_

* * *

Actually, it was much longer than fifteen minutes later before they were anywhere close to leaving as Mary insisted on waiting for Jenny before departing. "She won't be able to come back with us—I'm sure they've got a cast party or something—but we can at least let her know we were here and tell her what we thought."

It was quite late by the time Jenny got out of costume and makeup and found her way back to the waiting pair, although she was one of the first actors to make it to their well-wishers. Mary immediately embraced the younger woman (who looked so much more like herself without that blonde wig), exclaiming, "That was so _good_—you were fantastic. I know your parents are going to be so proud when they see it. I didn't know you could sing like that!"

The two chatted a bit, and then Mary stepped aside, allowing the two neighbors to talk.

"So," Jenny began, "what'd you think of this piece of 'trivial entertainment theater'?"

"It was—" Sherlock began _*Childish... insufferable... annoying... poorly paced... confusing... illogical...* _"—uncomfortable." His own word choice surprised him at first, but he more the thought about it, the more sense it made. He'd been so hyper-critical, so willing to find fault, not _just_ because of his presuppositions, but because something about the show, from the first notes of the overture, had made him uncomfortable.

To his surprise, Jenny was nodding, smiling slightly. "It's supposed to be. And not just because of how mean most of the people in power are. The very songs are unsettling with how they sound. There're a lot of discordant progressions and minor keys. I think that comes from the source material—Dahl is rarely a comfortable read, even when he is a fun one. I always got the feeling his happy endings were an afterthought, and everything beforehand was what he felt life was always like—and always would be like."

Sherlock blinked—her assessment of the ending fit his exactly. "I'd noted something similar. I suppose the playwright didn't soften the awkwardness because he feared what would happen if he deviated from the original too much?"

"I don't think so," Jenny replied. "I think there's power in Dahl's awkwardness, if you will. The way the optimism and pessimism are forced into a juxtaposition—it's like 'Miracle': seeing them like that reminds you that neither extreme is true, but there _is_ a viable third path."

"And that's the 'universal truth' this play was conveying?" Sherlock asked, not with as much cynicism as he would have before.

"Among others," the young actress affirmed, before chuckling. "I can tell I didn't exactly win a convert tonight. Did it give you something to think about at least?"

Sherlock considered. He hadn't enjoyed himself, exactly, but Jenny's perspective and insight had certainly put a different twist on the evening—one worth considering. He decided to take the compromise as offered. "It did."

As he turned to leave with Mary, Sherlock turned back. "You sounded good tonight—the acoustics suited you much better than the ones in 221C."

**So, yeah. Sherlock did go to the play, although it wasn't exactly an enjoyable experience for him. And, just because I feel it needs to be said: most of the assessment in here is me trying to assume what Sherlock would think, not my own opinion, although Jenny's perspective at the end is probably closer to my own views—I actually love this musical, even though a lot of the Dahl books I've read are slightly uncomfortable in an almost undefinable way.  
****Anyway, if you saw something you liked, or something you think I should fix/improve for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!**


	6. Righteous Anger

**Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! You know, I didn't think this chapter would be as hard for me to write as it turned out to be. Normally, I'm much better suited to dramatic or action-oriented stories, and struggle with the simpler, slice-of-life tales. But to make this one fit both the world of the show, and of the existing story was a challenge so strenuous, I almost abandoned this installment for another slice-of-life chapter, but I wanted to at least try to make this work.  
****As always, I own neither BBC Sherlock, nor the associated characters.  
****Trigger warning: As much as I tried to skirt around it, in order to stay true to questions asked in this type of investigation, there is some mention of sexual abuse, although nothing explicit.**

Some months later, Sherlock was called into Lestrade's office to consult on a series of gruesome murders, John as ever, by his side. The grey-haired inspector's face was neutral, but the consulting detective noticed tension in the other man's shoulders and jawline that bespoke of the twisted nature of the crimes about to be discussed.

"We've had three deaths in the last week, all with the same signature," Lestrade explain as he laid out the crime scene pictures of the mutilated bodies. "Three young women—unmarried, brunette, in mid-to-late twenties, living on their own, and recently moved to London from another country—all abducted from reasonably public places, taken to an unknown location, tortured, killed, and mutilated, before being dumped along the Thames. From what we can tell, it's one person, but he's careful enough to leave no forensic traces: fingerprints, DNA, or otherwise."

John frowned at the pictures, looking up. "Any signs of sexual assault?"

"None," Lestrade answered, frowning. "That's the one detail that doesn't fit. In crimes like this, you'd expect to find signs of...but the M.E. assures me that the girls weren't..." The inspector shook his head as he trialed off. "It just doesn't make sense. Does he think he's granting them a sick kind of mercy by sparing them that much? Although, given that most injuries are inflicted ante-mortem, I don't think much of his mercy..."

The conversation was barely more than background noise for Sherlock, although he was snapping up the pertinent bits of information, even as he drank in the clues the pictures could grant him. Abruptly he straightened, turning on his heel. "The pictures are insufficient—I need to see the latest dump sight." As he glanced over at John, expecting the doctor to follow, he found his friend frowning in worry. "John?"

"The profile of the victim—it sounds a lot like Jenny. Do you think she—?"

"Mere coincidence, John, notable only because she's one of the only people we know who fits the victim profile. Thousands of girls in this city alone do as well; let's not jump to any conclusions." And with that, he swept form the office, the other two following in his wake at a slower pace.

* * *

_Meanwhile, Jenny had met her friend, Jess, for one of their occasional lunches, enjoying the warming weather, and the relaxed air that comes towards the end of a run: in a matter of weeks, __Matilda__ would close, giving way to the company's next production: __Much Ado about Nothing__._

"_So, you have your eye on any particular part?" Jess asked as the two girls ate._

_Jenny gave an embarrassed half-smile. "At the risk of sounding greedy, I'd love to play Beatrice. I just love her witty banter—with Benedick, or with anyone else."_

"_I can see you doing well with that part, but you are a bit new to the company for a lead like that. What about secondary of back-up roles you'd accept?"_

"_Oh, I'd take any part they give me," Jenny assured her friend. "I guess if I had to pick a second choice, I'd have to go with Ursula or Margret. They get some fun scenes, too."_

_Jess took a moment to look appraisingly at her friend. "Margaret I can see, but Ursula? You're too young and too pretty."_

"_I'll have you know I can do both a convincing old-age makeup and well as middle-aged," Jenny retorted, before the two girls began laughing, enjoying the break and the peaceful afternoon._

* * *

John Watson was exhausted, and Sherlock knew it, but it wasn't exactly _his_ fault. The latest dump site hadn't been nearly as informative as he'd hoped—the killer being as overly careful as Lestrade had reported when it came to dumping the remains—thus necessitating a trip to the morgue, to examine the three bodies.

It was, perhaps, unfair to drag a man with a young child at home (a child just reaching the next 'fussy phase', thereby keeping both parents awake most of the night) around London and back in such a way, but the detective was a little more concerned with the picture that was forming from what clues were available.

"John, do you realize what we have on our hands?" he asked, excited by the looming prospect.

Jon, on the other hand, was nowhere near as eager. "Three dead girls and no clue who or why killed them?"

"But we do know why, and it's a first for me: pleasure."

John couldn't quite puzzle that one out, and so was forced to ask, "What's a first?"

"My first _true_ psycho path: someone who kills for no other reason than he gains pleasure from the suffering of others. There's no monetary gain, no revenge aspect, no material or power gain. The lack of a sexual component to the kills is a bit of a puzzle, but one I'm sure to soon work out. I haven't had a case this interesting in a long time!

Dr. Watson followed his friend out, casting one last, apologetic glance to the three silent bodies. "Interesting might not be the right word, Sherlock..."

* * *

_As fun as the lunch had been, it couldn't last all day. It might have been their one night off, but both actresses had errands to run before the next night's show. After a final hug and farewell, the two parted at last, bound opposite directions down the semi-crowded city street._

* * *

The crime-solving pair's next stop was Bakers Street, where Sherlock grabbed three books and began flipping through them while pulling up an academic journal on his laptop. John watched his friend in silence for a total of two minutes before asking, "Care to let me know what you're doing or are you just going to assume I know what you want me to do?"

The detective didn't even look up. "I'll return to the case proper in a moment; for now, I'm brushing up on psychopaths so I know how to properly interpret the clues he oh-so-generously left for us."

"'Brushing up'? Are you actually admitting ignorance on something?" John knew better than to touch the reference to ostensibly obvious clues that Holmes alone could see.

"Not _ignorance_ John—merely refreshing my memory. Do remember that I tend to delete information I deem irrelevant. I want to be sure none of that deleted information pertains to psychopaths, since we've not gone up against one." All the while, Sherlock was alternating between the three books, the journal article, and two webpages he'd pulled up. "Hm..." he mused aloud, eye caught by a piece of information that fit the case nicely, "the killings seem to lack a sexual component, but the fact that the cause of death was stabbing—with a good deal of overkill—suggests an impotent killer using the knife as a substitute."

John had to shake his head—this was going to be one of _those_ cases.

* * *

_The sun was bright, the weather warming, but not uncomfortably so—London's climate a welcome break from the humidity the American had been forced to endure when living state-side—and the street, though not crowded, at least bustled with a cheerful energy that Jenny couldn't deny. But for all that, the young brunette felt an uneasiness creep over her, and found herself glancing repeatedly over her shoulder, unable to concretely verbalize just why she was so discomforted._

_Just as the young actress reprimanded herself to relax for the sixteenth time, turning a corner from the main street, a strong, rough hand clapped itself over her mouth as the other grabbed her arm. While her mind froze in panic, unable to recognize the smell on the cloth the first hand held to her mouth and nose, she nevertheless struggled instinctively. But the sickly-sweet chemical was already filtering into her system, shutting down conscious control, and eventually rendering Jenny unconscious._

* * *

Sherlock stood before a map of London, multi-colored pushpins marking the abduction and dump sites of all three bodies, strings connecting the corresponding markings. Hanging next to the map was a list of substances found on all three bodies, and Sherlock was simultaneously attempting to decipher the killer's comfort zone—and likely location of the murder sight—based on a geographical profile and chemical overlap.

All at once he surged forward, blue eyes flitting quickly between the list and map, one long arm surging forward to place a single pin in a precise location. "There!" he called, startling John, who'd begun to doze off after his friend had stood motionless and silent for several, long minutes. "That's where he's taking them! A simple stake out will solve this case in no time!"

Suddenly, his face fell. "I would've thought this would be more difficult to solve. What a disappointment."

John began to move toward the phone, to call Lestrade with the breakthrough, shaking his head at his friend's attitude—one he still didn't completely grasp, even as he had grown accustomed to it.

* * *

_When Jenny came to, she was slumped uncomfortably against a rough, cement wall, as if she'd been thrown there, her wrists tied together and forced above her head, secured to a metal hook jutting out of the wall. Her legs were free, but the angle at which she was forced to lie made it difficult to attempt to stand or move. There was a rough cloth filling her mouth, almost choking her, and several layers of duct tape over her mouth refused to let her spit it out._

_Her pounding headache and receding fuzziness came hand-in-hand with terror as she took in the small, claustrophobic, basement-like room that she was in. Empty and stale as it was, there was the faintest remnant of the smell of blood. Part of Jenny thought—no, prayed—that this was nothing more than a dream, but she knew all too well she never dreamed in such terrifying details; indeed, she was rarely scared when she dreamed, as there were rarely any details, or touch of realism. _

_No, this was real, and that made it worse than __any__ nightmare._

* * *

_John began to move toward the phone, to call Lestrade with the breakthrough, shaking his head at his friend's attitude—one he still didn't completely grasp, even as he had grown accustomed to it._

Just as he reached the phone, it rang incessantly, and the doctor picked it up, knowing all too well that Sherlock wouldn't answer while absorbed in the case. "Hello?"

"Hello...um, this is going to sound weird..." a hesitant female voice began. "But is this Jenny's upstairs neighbor?"

"He's right over here—I'm a friend of his," John explained. "Can I help you?"

"Oh, well, it's just that when Jenny and I met for lunch today, she left her notebook behind, and I must've picked it up by mistake. I only just noticed it. I tried calling her cell and her apartment, but she's not answering. I was wondering if you know how I might get a hold of her?"

John and Sherlock exchanged glances at that, subtle worry growing. "How long has it been?" John asked carefully.

Not understanding the urgency, Jess nevertheless tried to be helpful. "A couple of hours, actually—that's why I decided to try here. I know the notebook's important to her; I honestly expected her to call me as soon as she noticed it was gone."

John hung up the phone then, but there was no need to tell his best friend 'I told you so'—the consulting detective was already running out the door. John picked up the phone again. If Sherlock was going to run headfirst into danger again, the least the doctor could do was ensure that his friend had back up.

* * *

_She hadn't yet seen her captor, but, terrified as she was, Jenny was determined not to wait for him to reveal himself or his plans for her—she was getting out of there. Tightening her core and ignoring the protests from her exhausted arms, she pulled down on her wrists, trying both to sever the rope that bound her wrists together and to get her feet under her. She managed to succeed in the latter goal, standing on unsteady feet, doing her best not to topple as she eased her tormented wrists over the hook, __finally__ able to let her hands fall in front of her, though they were still bound._

_She took only a moment to catch her breath and steady her feet, every tense nerve screaming out her to run, run—run as far as she could! Jenny's gaze focused on the door, which was most certainly locked, but she nevertheless stumbled up the stairs and tried to budge the handle which gave, surprisingly._

_However, as the door swung inward, knocking her off-balance, it was clear that it was not __her__ doing that had caused it to unlock. Instead, it had been the work of the tall, powerful, imposing, back-lit figure now looming over her. _

_Jenny attempted to rally first and run past the man while he was still surprised to see her (mostly) free. However, the chemical he'd used to knock her out still hampered her movements, and allowed him to seize and roughly twist her arm, halting her escape attempt. His eyes lit with dangerous rage as he dragged her roughly back down the stairs. "You're going to regret that!" he hissed, throwing her to the ground._

_Jenny tried to curl up on herself protectively, knowing all too well it would do her little good, bound and physically out-matched as she was._

* * *

Sherlock found the abandoned building with the below-ground basement just where he knew it would be, with a vehicle that undoubtedly belonged to the killer still parked outside, but he felt no satisfaction at the validation. Not because he'd known beyond a doubt this was the place, but because he was filled with a raging protective fury and a fearsome indignation: how _dare_ this two-bit psychopath that hadn't even challenged him for whole day kidnap—with intent to kill—the newest member of what Mary had dubbed the 'Bakers Street Family'?

Without slowing his pace any, Sherlock burst through the unlocked front door and open basement door, arriving at the bottom of the stairs in four steps to find the killer looming over a small, huddled figure. Without a break in stride, Sherlock drew back his fist, driving it solidly in the unprepared man's jaw, knocking him away from Jenny. Shifting unconsciously so that he was between the psychopath and his intended victim, the detective growled, "_No _one hurts my friends."

The man glared, but didn't get up to strike back; he heard the sirens of the approaching cops, and knew there'd be not getting out of this—he knew as well as anyone did the reputation of Sherlock Holmes, the detective who'd come back from the dead to strike terror into London's criminal world yet again.

* * *

As the killer was taken into custody, Sherlock found himself hovering awkwardly near the EMT's that were seeing to Jenny. They'd assured him he'd arrived before her captor had inflicted serious injury and that they were mostly making sure she hadn't had a concussion and that all traces of the original sedative were out of her system, but he found that he couldn't just accept that and turn away. He had no desire to see Lestrade take the man who'd done this into custody—he was gone, and that was all that mattered.

For her part, Jenny was understandably shaken, and the consulting detective found himself wondering if she'd ever fully recover. She wasn't like him or John—the pair had made this dangerous, dark world a part of their lives, but she'd been dragged in against her will—and only time would tell if she had the internal fortitude to rally back to any semblance of normalcy.

* * *

Two weeks later, Sherlock was back in the theater, watching _Matilda_ yet again, this time on its closing night—not because he'd enjoyed the show the first time he'd seen it, but because he, the Watsons, and even Mrs. Hudson had come to support Jenny in what was one of the final major steps in her recovery process. After taking an understandable trip back to the states to see her parents and let the terror subside, the young actress had chosen to return to London and finish out the run of the show that had brought her there in the first place; the understudy who'd taken her place gracefully ceding the role of Miss Honey back to the American.

Watching her performance, it was only the detective's practiced eye that could make out a more realistic edge to the character's more fearful moments, but by the time curtain call came, the triumphant smile on Jenny's face was unmistakably genuine—she'd conquered internal demons and refused to let that man steal her life, much like her character's arc in the show. Sherlock found himself nodding once in acknowledgement to his young friend as she took her bow, though he knew she was too far away to see it.

But, perhaps she sensed it somehow , for as she stood upright after her bow, Jenny's eyes rested on the detective as he sat in the same first-row balcony seat as before.

**So, yeah. After a certain part, things picked up again, and I have to say that I'm glad I at least tried. There may be more 'telling' than 'showing' in this particular installment, but I actually liked the change to a more big-picture perspective. (Don't worry, though, I fully intend to go back to the original style for the next and final installment.)  
****Anyways, if you saw something you like, or something you think I can fix/improve on for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review to let me know.**


	7. The Hardest Words

**Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here with the (sort of) final installment of 'New Neighbors'. I say 'sort of' because I actually have other chapters planned (especially one suggested by EnduranceInHope), but for now, I will list the story as complete as one arc has reached its conclusion, then return to the story and change its listing after working on a few other stories currently buzzing about in my brain, or else write a true sequel. We'll see. But for now, we have reached the end of this brief journey, and I want to give a huge 'thank you' to everyone who has come along with me. I hope you enjoy!  
****As always, I only own Jenny, her theater friends, and the story ideas. Everything else belongs to the realm of BBC Sherlock, which, of course, I do not own.**

John Watson carefully observed his acerbic friend with an air of cautious concern, uncertain of whether the dark-haired detective would voice his emotions or else continue to ignore them and pretend that he wasn't angry.

The doctor sat back in his usual chair in 221B, watching his former roommate pace furiously about, occasionally playing a few bars on his violin, but mostly trying not to scowl. At last, John had to shake his head. "You know, there's nothing wrong with being upset—it's a bloody unfair situation," he observed, wondering if Sherlock would take the offered opening.

"Life isn't fair, John—people in our line of work know that better than anyone."

_*Yes, we do,*_ John admitted, thinking even of the medical field, which was not the line of work he knew his friend had meant. "That doesn't stop humanity from hoping for—_wanting_—fairness. Hence why something like this gets under our skin—at least, if we are honest with ourselves."

"Hmph," Sherlock grumbled. "You're starting to sound like her," he mumbled, with a swift downward glance.

The direction of his gaze did not go unnoticed, as brief as the look had been, and John had a moment of hesitation, wondering how to proceed in this unprecedented situation. "You know, she's going to talk with them today, and half the company will come to bat for her. Thing can still work out."

Sherlock turned abruptly on his friend, bow outstretched in an accusing point. "Don't try to patronize or assure me, John, I know the odds. If the board of the company is so by-the-book as to not consider the extenuating circumstances surrounding her missing the audition, it's highly unlikely they'll renew her contract after claiming she violated it by not being in both shows."

_*'Extenuating Circumstances' is quite the euphemism for taking two weeks at home to recover psychologically from being attacked by a serial-killing psychopath. Did they honestly expect her to bounce back quicker?*_ All this crossed John's mind, but the doctor held his tongue as the detective continued his calm, but thoroughly unnecessary explanation—they both knew the facts.

"Odds are she'll have only a matter of weeks to find a steady day job, a new company, or both. If her pay drops too significantly, she'll have to find an even cheaper apartment—worst case scenario, though unlikely, she goes back to the States permanently. In all likelihood, Jenny will have to—to move."

Dr. Watson was relieved to hear Sherlock say the words—he'd been dancing around the issue for the last few days, after overhearing Jenny explaining to Mrs. Hudson, who'd understandably been both upset and yet optimistic. In fact, if that afternoon's meeting hadn't been closed to all but members of the theatrical company, John suspected that Mrs. Hudson would've marched right in, fighting tooth, nail, and blunt practicality to ensure that the newest member of her little family was treated fairly.

_*She wouldn't have been the only one,*_ John mused, remembering his and Mary's reaction to the news. Despite the pensive mood in the flat, he couldn't deny the amusement that came with picturing the landlady, the former assassin, the doctor, and (of course) the detective, bursting in and demanding that Jenny be given fair consideration.

Rabbit trail aside, he still needed to address the issue at hand. "Granted—Jenny's friend Jess explained as much when we asked her. The question is: are you going to make this harder on Jenny or easier for her?" This statement earned a glare from Sherlock, but Dr. Watson wasn't so easily cowed anymore. "Look, I get it: she's a friend, and you don't want to see her go. You definitely don't want her to have to go back to the States, if the worst comes. You don't want to see her fail; you don't want to see her beaten. But if it happens, and all she sees is that you're angry and unwilling to let go, it's going to be that much harder for her to get back up and try again. Theater's a tough business and Jenny's a tough girl, but she'll need your help if things don't go well."

"And just how do you propose I help her?" Sherlock asked in a voice dripping with condescension.

John sighed. The detective wasn't going to like this... "Be willing to say 'goodbye', Sherlock. I know it's hard—"

"It's a single word, two syllables—four syllables and two words if you add her name. How hard can it be?"

But despite the question, John knew it would very hard, indeed, for his best friend.

* * *

Silence had fallen by midafternoon, allowing both men to hear the downstairs door open and weary, but light footfalls enter.

"She's been losing weight with all the stress this is causing her," Sherlock mumbled angrily, standing up from the chair he'd at last come to rest in, apparently also having noticed how paradoxically quiet the young actress's heavy footfalls were.

Jenny must've hesitated at the landing, then noticed the open door above, as she changed her path and came up to join them, instead of heading down to 221C. As she entered, John turned, trying to read the meeting's conclusion in her expression, but for once, the normally-expressive face was blank. Fearing that such a neutral face was an omen of bad news, the doctor glanced quickly to his friend, wondering how the detective would react.

"Well?" Sherlock asked bluntly, causing John to wince.

Jenny, however, only gave a weary shrug. "Well enough. They managed to bend the rules—I'll be eligible for contract renewal so long as I'm in _Much Ado,_ and therefore don't void my old one."

John was now trying to pick up whether this was good or bad news. "But didn't you miss the auditions?"

"Technically, yes," the American answered with a weary smile. "But when half the cast argues you should at least be allowed an ensemble role, given the circumstance, it turns out exceptions can be made. You're looking at the most relieved soldier in Don Pedro's unit."

John returned the smile, but Sherlock only grunted in a non-committed manner. "Well, if that's your role, then you'd better get back to decent eating habits—or see if they have costume padding. And maybe some kind of lift or heel to hide just how short you are..."

In response, the young actress laughed, swatting the detective on his arm in a mock-offended manner. John sat back with a relieved sigh. All was well, and all was back to normal.

**So, yeah. I realize the details of Jenny's situation doesn't really fit how most modern theaters work, (trust me, as a theater major, I know that full well) but I've been in a theater history class all semester, so have been bombarded with the roots of repertory and single-show long-run theaters, so I sort of amalgamated past and present trends of both approaches, since that's what's rattling around in my head right now. I hope it didn't pull anyone form the story too much.  
****Anyway, thank you again for coming with me this far, and while I may not update this for a while, I'm glad for the journey I've had. As always, if you saw something you liked, or something you think I should fix/improve on for next time, don't hesitate to leave me a review and let me know!**


End file.
